Kennedy
“We made it,” I say out loud.
I bounce on my toes, realizing the monumental importance of this day. If the world knew our story, they’d say I was some ignorant little girl who allowed some cocky boy to get away with too much. Those people don’t know Graham. Our love story started out unconventionally, but never once have I regretted my choices since that night on the dirt road. Those choices led us here. Some may never understand the magnitude of what I feel for this man, but that’s sort of the point. They don’t need to, because I see enough in him for the whole god damn world.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Black yells above the crowd. “To know you’re the reason why he’s here.”
If she only knew. If Graham were standing beside me right now, he’d whisper in my ear that it’s true. I’m his reason why.
Graham sets himself up on the mound, looking every bit comfortable and content in this environment. I don’t know how he deals with the pressure—the lights, the cheers, the endless distractions—as he hones in on his talent. The ability to do so is a talent in and of itself.
He throws a few over the plate, the catcher eager to shuffle the ball back to him. His name is Joe, I think. Ben is wearing his number and name on the back of his t-shirt.
The uniform fits Graham like it was stitched specifically for him. His broad shoulders and muscular thighs tug the fabric tight.
Graham smiles with every pitch. He doesn’t need to say it for me to understand. He’s soaking this up. Every pitch he throws. Every up to bat he’ll have today is important to him.
Like he said, we made it.
The players hustle in from the outfield and stand in a straight line for the National Anthem. A young blonde girl walks out with a microphone clenched in her hand. She brings it to her mouth, and I swear I’m witnessing nothing short of a miracle. Her voice is smooth but raspy. As she finishes, the crowd goes wild.
The commentator announces who will be pitching tonight. They call Graham a rookie, and he’s just that, but he’s about to prove every doubter wrong. My skin is buzzing with goose bumps as he walks to the mound, removing his hat to say thank you to the fans.
“Dammit, he’s a natural,” I say to Mrs. Black. She circles my shoulders with her arm and gives me a quick shake.
We sit, stand, cheer, and sulk. Every possible emotion runs through me. Nothing could have ever prepared me for what it’s like to be front row for someone’s dreams coming true. I want to soak up every little bit of information I can. The smell of the fresh popcorn. The wind on my neck. The way my heart pounds in my chest.
Their new closer, a veteran in the game, finishes off the last two innings, giving Graham a break from overworking his shoulder. Tears streak down my face when my husband jogs off the field after pitching his first game in the Majors. If I could bottle the emotion and sip it every morning like a vitamin, I would.
They end up winning ten to six. The crowd is frantic with excitement, everyone chattering and milling about as we make our way up the stairs. My phone buzzes as we step out of the stadium.
Graham: Meet me on the field.
What? He has to be kidding. Security isn’t just going to let some crazy lady jump a fence and make herself at home.
The phone buzzes again.
Graham: Stop overthinking it and make your way down there. I’ll be there in a little while. I love you, baby.
Mrs. Black insists on going back to the hotel, claiming to be exhausted. I think she knows Ben and I need a little bit of time with Graham.
Ben is rounding first when Graham walks out from the dugout an hour later. He wears a team hoodie and the gray sweatpants that always manage to turn my insides out, and his baseball cap hangs low on his head. He’s walking girly porn.
“Why do you have to be so damn gorgeous? It’s sort of annoying,” I say as he scoops me up and twirls me around. I smack his shoulder to put me down.
“I’ll answer you in a second.” He grins, racing towards Ben, hot on his heels as our son rounds second base. Graham hoots and hollers, egging Ben on by narrating Ben’s imaginary homerun.
“Ben Black rounds third, the hottest wheels in the MLB since his father.” Graham’s voice echoes through the stadium.
Ben breaks into a full giggle as his feet cross over home plate. Graham swoops him up and places him on his shoulders, celebrating.
I rest on the railing in front of the dugout. Warmth cascades over me. Graham’s dreams have truly happened. He’s a father, and he’s a husband, but most importantly, he’s a man who reached for something. He clutched ahold of life and made it everything he always wanted it to be.
*****
The kitchen is an absolute disaster. Making Ben pancakes is one way I’ve dealt with the guilt of thinking I’m not giving him the kind of attention he gets from his dad. In Graham’s absence, I’m pretty sure I haven’t denied even one of Ben’s wants or wishes. Him being back in school has been a little more difficult, but we are managing.
My cell phone rings, and I search through a pile until Ben’s principal’s name lights up on the screen. Why would he be calling? What if something’s happened? My stomach flips on me. Please let everything be okay.
“Mrs. Black?” a deep voice says.
“Yes, this is she,” I respond, racing around the kitchen to find my purse. I shove my wallet inside and zip it. “Is Ben okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s perfectly fine. We were just wondering if you could come in and have a sit down. We’ve had a bit of an incident.” Incident? “Is there any way you can come in now?” he asks.
Fear races through my veins. “Of course, I’ll be there soon.”
Within twenty minutes, I’m sitting in front of a large mahogany desk. Jumbled stacks of papers and files tempt me to lift the flaps to see if anything there has to do with Ben.
A man in khakis and a white dress shirt waltzes into the room, leans over the desk, and pilfers through the mess. His calm demeanor irritates me. Doesn’t he know I’m freaking out? Why is he ignoring me?
“What’s this about? I don’t mean to be off putting, but it’s not like you to call for no reason. You sort of have a hand up on me,” I say, needing to break the silence before it cracks me right down the middle.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Black,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Mr. Hoyt. I don’t think we’ve formally met.”
Our hands touch, and his grip is tight around mine. “It’s nice meeting you, but what about Ben?” My eyebrow raises, urging words out of this guy’s mouth.
“Okay, I’m not a hundred percent sure how to ask this, but is everything okay at home?” He rounds the desk, sitting on the corner in front of me.
Caught off guard by the question, I rake my fingers through my hair, preparing to punch this guy if he tries to insinuate something is wrong under my roof. “Why are you asking?”
“Ben’s been off as of late,” he finally admits.
“We’re in the middle of quite the transitional period.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I know how difficult this can be to hear, Mrs. Black, but Ben’s been acting out a bit. Not hurting anyone, but not the same boy we’ve grown to know. He’s withdrawn and doesn’t seem able to relate to the kids as much as we’d expected. One kid asked about Mr. Black, and Ben snapped, almost like he’s uncomfortable with your husband’s success.”
“Really?” I ask. The news surprises me. Ben is always so even mannered. He’s the first kid to say please and thank you, and never has anything negative to say about anyone. What the principal is saying is extremely difficult to hear.
My biggest fear all along has been how Ben would feel with Graham gone. When Graham was part of the farm league, home games allowed him to be home with us, but now, it’s not as easy with school and the hectic Major League schedule.
“We’re doing our best.” I abruptly stand, yanking the strap of my purse tight on my shoulder, and smile at him. My insides are breaking, and I can’t do it in front of a complete stranger.
“Ma’am,” Mr. Hoyt calls. I release the door handle and glance over my shoulder to witness understanding seeping onto his face. “Kids go through phases.”
His words are meant to be a balm, a way of keeping me together. If a few simple words could ease my mind, I wouldn’t be silently freaking out over my failures.
In my panicked state, the drive home is a blur. Nothing registers until I speed through a STOP sign, and a truck coming straight for me blares his horn. Once in the driveway, I shift into park and rest my head on the steering wheel. Tears spill over onto my cheeks at rapid speed, and no kind of calming technique can stop the pressure building in my chest.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Shit.” Frantically, I brush my palms down my face to erase the evidence of my break down.
“Ken?” Rico rests on the top of the door and eases forward.
“Just give me a second,” I demand.
Does he listen? Of course not, because he’s Rico. This trait of overstepping would usually piss me off, but right now, him unbuckling me and tugging me into his arms makes me feel a little less manic.
“No offense, but these aren’t the arms I’m needing,” I whisper into his shoulder.
“I know, but I’m here. You looked seconds away from losing your shit.”
I nod. I am losing my shit. These last two weeks have been tough. It’s an adjustment I hadn’t realized would be so difficult. I’m desperate for it to be simple. When I lay down at night and roll to his side of the bed, I’m reminded how hard it is. Sometimes I need his touch to center me, and when he isn’t here, I have to find a way to do it myself.
Jackie would say, “This is a good thing, Kennedy,” and she’d be right. I’m learning again what it feels like to control my own insecurities and fears, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
“Ben’s struggling,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Rico holds me at arm’s length. His eyes are alarmingly wide as he waits for my explanation.
“Seems the principal and his teacher think something’s going on with him.” Rico follows me into the house. “Have you noticed anything different or off about him?”
“He’s been quieter. He snuck up to my place the other night while I was studying and fell asleep on my bed.”
“How did I not know this?” Things are happening under my own roof, and I’m completely unaware of them.
“I carried him back in when I was heading to bed. You were already asleep.” Rico shakes his head. “To be honest, I didn’t think anything of it.”
With a push on my back, he ushers me to the kitchen table. He shuffles around, starting the kettle and placing two teacups in front of me. I laugh at how small they are. Rico could Hulk smash them with a single flex of his thumbs. As he prepares the tea, the silence between us is comfortable.
I bring the cup to my lips to blow the steam billowing from the top. With a sigh, I take a sip. The day’s stress weighs down on me. I don’t know what to say or do to ease Ben’s pain.
An epiphany hits me. The house is quiet. A quick glance of the clock shows Ben won’t be home for another hour.
“Where’s Mrs. Black?” I ask.
“I know you’re stressed, but you’re sitting right in front of me.” His smirk grows, and I know he’s trying to distract me from the hundreds of scenarios coursing through my mind about Ben’s behavior.
“Very funny, but seriously, I didn’t catch her this morning. I don’t even think I saw her yesterday.” I scan the kitchen as if she’ll magically appear like a bunny in a hat.
Rico shrugs, not seeming too concerned about her absence. “She’s always coming and going, but she’s always back before Ben gets home, so I wouldn’t worry too hard. Maybe she went to the store or something.” Rico’s explanation makes perfect sense.
“You’re right. All the stress is going to my head.” The warmth of the liquid manages to ease my mind. “How’d you know this would work?” I push the empty porcelain cup towards him.
“My mom used to drink tea at night when she couldn’t sleep,” he answers. It doesn’t go unnoticed the way he looks away. Is he nervous to talk about her, or is it something else entirely?
“What’s she like?” I ask. Graham has always urged me not to dig too deep, but Rico’s practically my brother. I want to know what he was like before he bulldozed into my life.
“She was so stressed over trying to be the perfect wife and chairwoman that she forgot she also needed to be a good mother.” He takes our cups to the sink, and instead of leaving them, he stalls the conversation by washing and drying them.
This is the first confession Rico’s ever made to me. Usually people find it easy and necessary to bare their soul to me after some time, but not him. He’s always been a closed book. Much like Graham was when he first came to Connecticut.
“It’s her loss, you know?” I step towards him, and he startles at my presence.
“I just don’t know why she has such a hard time opening up to me, and letting me in.” He bangs his hand on the counter, proof he’s not just a hard shell of a man. The tea cups rattle from the assault.
“Are we still talking about your mom?” I lean on the counter, practically forcing him to look me in the eyes.
“Your best friend is awfully stubborn.” His head nods in a move so small, I barely notice it. He pushes off the counter and heads towards the door.
“Rick.” When he turns, I offer a soft smile. “She’s difficult, that much I know, but when you peel back those amazingly beautiful layers, I promise you it will be worth the heartache and trouble she’s putting you through.”
“Like Graham was for you.”
“I don’t regret one moment with him. Every last tear and sleepless night has been worth it.”
“I’m going to go work out,” Rico states. Like most men, he doesn’t do well with dishing out emotion. He’d rather flee than divulge.
“Rico.” He doesn’t turn when he hears me call him that. It’s like he knows I need him to hear what I’m about to say to him. “Don’t be someone who gives up when the waters are murky. Be the person who dives in without knowing what waits for you at the bottom.”
His shoulders stiffen, and with his back facing me, I witness the release of the air he holds in tight. He leaves me alone with an awfully empty, quiet house. A pin could drop on the tile floor, and it would be deafening.
After a quick load of laundry and a clean sweep of the downstairs, I head upstairs with a load of fresh towels. Anything to distract myself until Ben gets home. There’s conversations to be had, and I have no idea how to get a nine-year-old to tell me how he’s feeling.
I stall outside of my mother-in-law’s door. It feels like an intrusion to step foot into her space. I twist the knob and poke my head in, as if I’ll find her laying in the bed that’s perfectly made.
I need to not worry about my mother-in-law. There’s enough shit on my plate. Ben and I need to get out of Connecticut. I need to get out of town. Dealing with this shit on my own isn’t something I’m going to do when my husband is only a few hours away. The hard stuff in life is easier to face when he’s beside me.